


First Light

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Morning Cuddles, Other, Recovery, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: One of those rare mornings when you wake, slowly, and forget about everything else.





	First Light

**Author's Note:**

> Listen,,, I have a lot of feelings

It begins with early morning blearily filtering into the cabin, swaying in the rhythm of the ship, gliding across scuffed hardwood and discarded coats, and it gently tickles you awake. You open your eyes, and after a few seconds of bated breath, realize that last night’s anxiety and uneasiness is gone; you are content to lie in the arms of your lover. You can’t help the sigh that escapes your body even though you know that it is only temporary.

Any brief respite is welcome.

His hair is untied, and he looks considerably younger without his uniform and stern creases along his eyes and mouth.

He stirs, and black eyes lazily focus on your face.

You don’t say anything. Neither of you have to do anything.

Both of you are so vulnerable like this.

It is unfathomable, unbelievable, that you would risk the trauma that a façade already thinly veils.

Last night is a hazy memory. Still, they manage to always start the same way: clinging to each other, stripping clothes and reason, desperate kisses in the dark to chase away your worry and his nightmares. On some evenings, you long for sandpaper touches, abrasive and fevered, eroding your identity until nothing hurts, or everything does.

Other nights, more often by his whispered requests that you can hardly deny, Shay takes your hand and leads you outside. He whispers the names of the constellations against your mouth as they blink into existence, and he promises to teach you the rest on another twilight; and while these nights don’t destroy you, they reinvent your pain to something tolerable, something like commitment. It’s enough to convince you to stay awhile.

You don’t dare and try to remember what you did last night. It breaks the illusion of this comfort. Shay doesn’t, either, as his callused, rough hand skims over your abdomen, under your thin shirt. He is the first to seek a confirmation in your lips that yes, you are still here. How all others pale in comparison to this tender, sleepy kiss. You shut your eyes and melt into the bed, arching up into his body, as his weight presses against you. He doesn’t let go of you as he cards his other hand through your locks, trying to ground himself in the feeling, the realization, that you are real and here.

Breaking apart, he studies your face intensely. Burning the details of your eyes, nose, lips, the little freckle by your ear, into his mind. You would be lying if you didn’t admit that you were doing the same. Your fingers that dug in his cotton shirt, trace the scar that carves along his eye, and he does the same with each dip and swell of your ribcage. You recoil, ever so ticklish, and Shay smiles gently.

You let your fingers drop down to those chapped lips.

He kisses them sweetly, and you think, _This man is not a killer._

Mornings on the _Morrigan_ are rare, but beloved.


End file.
